


it could not have been done (without you)

by UnAmusings



Series: Heaven Blessed [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ...for plot purposes i guess, Bathing/Washing, Communication, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Heterochromia, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, M/M, Married Couple, Mpreg, Prophetic Dreams, parenting struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22601374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnAmusings/pseuds/UnAmusings
Summary: He opens his eyes. The day is like any other, with birds fluttering, a quiet commotion from the waking village outside. A babe rests on his chest, drooling into his shirt, small and wrinkly enough to barely be a day old.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Series: Heaven Blessed [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1402678
Comments: 12
Kudos: 110





	it could not have been done (without you)

**Author's Note:**

> This the last part! Sorry, it took so long, I reworked this about 1000 times.
> 
> Yes, I do more with Jon being a Targaryen than D&D did. Yes, I'll always be mad that Jon wasn't a skinchanger in the show. Yes, I have no remorse. You'll see what I mean, when you read thus...
> 
> The title is from " _Isn't She Lovely_ ," by the great Stevie Wonder. We've come full circle y'all.
> 
> Unbeta'd

Tormund settles behind his husband feeling the water of their tub rise. Stress flowing from his muscles as his limbs fall in place to cocoon them both.

The water isn't scalding, the high heat unsuitable for Jon so far along. Something feels off, though, with the lull of pain in his chest. The water doesn't feel like water, and something flares in Tormund's brain. Something not quite right.

Water laps at their skin, he decides to focus on the way droplets slide down the curve of Jon's belly. Entrancing, like little crystals that bend light,

Jon covers his face, as his shoulders tremble. Tormund knows that his little crow is unaware that he burrows further into Tormund's chest. Or, that he tends to soothe the little one in his belly in an attempt to calm himself.

"Tor, I'm not equipped for this. Their ours, our little boys, what are we for if not teaching them."

His heart hurts, the pain under his ribs festering. The ache doesn't feel like his own, though, regardless of how agonizing it feels. Absent of words, even empty assurances, Tormund struggles with his own thoughts. An unusual bout of uncertainty weaving under his ribs to choke him.

Jon's breath labors enough to have the water rippling. Sitting up, he pulls away from Tormund, hunched over himself as if to keep all he feels more contained.

"One day we'll have to let them go," Tormund hums, the sensation odd in his throat though he can't pinpoint why, "But, we will never lose them."

Jon shudders, elbows resting on the edge of the tub as he digs his palms into his eyes. The desperation they both feel is suffocating, working away what little calm they had.

"They're apprenticing with those in our village, a few hours everyday," Tormund tries. "Ed's a greenseer, we can't help him with what he knows, or what he'll face."

"Should we have known?" His husband whispers, "He's always been so intuitive and smart, were we supposed to see the signs?"

Tormund laughs, slightly hysterical, "We're not the Three Eyed Raven, we're not the ones that can."

It's a punch to the gut, one that Tormund is familiar with. Years ago, before he ever had thoughts of a war ending, or a life worth living, he had felt this hopelessness. Toregg had just turned fourteen, barely a man in the eyes of many, and the chief of his mother's tribe had sent him off to battle.

Tormund hadn't even known, in his own tent leading his own men, until his son came back with a sword in his shoulder. His first son, one he barely knew on the brink of death in a tent full of dying soldiers.

Even though Tormund knows this pain, it stings all the same. For Jon, his lovely little crow, so strong and enduring, this is his first. The first crashing down of reality, that they won't always be enough for the children they love dearly.

In the wake of realization, Jon struggles. His first babe already growing beyond his reach, out of his protection, into the unknown.

He knows for his husband it's different. He has never carried life into the world, protected a babe from the beginning of its heart beats. Jon took to his role quickly, has never stopped being a nurturer since they found out Ed was on his way, had taken every step of the way in stride.

But now, he doubts. Tormund can see it in the full body shudders, the twitch of the muscles in his back. Slowly, he plants a kiss between Jon's shoulder blades, traveling upwards. His little crow relaxes until he's resting on Tormund's chest once more.

"Ed will be fine, just like Taite will be," he reassures.

Jon sighs, a single tear sliding down his cheek, "He's only five."

Tormund kisses the lone drop away, "Then he can learn early on how to control his skin changing. Maybe even teach you a thing or two."

Finally, Jon smiles, shaky and tired. "Maybe, I doubt I'll warg when I'm not sleeping."

Tormund grins, despite the worry in his heart. They interlock fingers over the swell of their child, knowing that no matter what, they have each other. His eyes flutter shut as they meet each other in a kiss.

That's when everything clicks into place. As his eyes open, lips tingling from mapping his husband's mouth with his own, the world has changed. The bath gone, the wisps of steam vanished.

He's never been one fortunate enough to know when he's dreaming.

Probably because he rarely slumbered so deeply. When the dreams do come, they're dark, looming clouds that steal sleep like a thief in the night. But, for the first time since he was a boy, Tormund knows he is asleep, even if he wasn't aware at first.

He opens his eyes. The day is like any other, with birds fluttering, a quiet commotion from the waking village outside. A babe rests on his chest, drooling into his shirt, small and wrinkly enough to barely be a day old. But his husband is nowhere to be found, though their bed is still warm.

Carefully, Tormund rises, only needing a palm under the baby's bum to keep her from falling. She snuggles until a tiny fist rests on the patch of skin under his collar. Only days old, with a head full of black hair that curls in wisps, he coos as she fusses. She's beautiful despite her squishy face and grumpy eyebrows.

Opening the door out of the bedroom, he steps out. Everything shifts again.

At first, it's the way their hut has changed. The way there's snow on the ground though summer was at their doorstep when he'd gone to bed. Tormund feels out of place in winter furs from not having worn them for so long.

The absence of a weight in his arms startles him, sudden and panic inducing. Only settled by watching Jon's familiar silhouette shuffle over to him.

His husband's eyes have crinkled at the corners in a way that Tormund doesn't recognize. Crows feet settled deep in Jon's kin from a lifetime of smiling, and black as coal hair threaded with streaks of grey.

He knows he is dreaming. It is in the small details. How his hand doesn't _feel_ real, and the sounds are echoes being carried through water. The happy lilt in Jon's voice as they watch a group come nearer is muffled. Heads of different colors at different heights bustle towards their hut in slow strides, the wind carrying laughter.

Tormund likes this trance he's swept under. Likes the way an ache from a heart too full fills his chest, as if it were pumping pure gold through his veins. Loves the way it floats in the air, igniting negative space with sparks of contentment. His husband sinks further into his side as they wait for the party of people to arrive.

It's damn near perfect.

And finally, when those travellers are at their doorstep, Tormund knows who they are. His family is huddled around them, all so different than he knows they are.

At the head is Toregg, and his first born's first born nestled in her father's arm. There's a smattering of light hair in all of Toregg's red, barely noticeable. Enough to make Tormund's eyes burn, wondering how so much time has passed to see his boy old. But, he doesn't feel the weight of bitterness settle low, of lost moments and abandoned memories with his first son. Whoever _this_ Tormund is–trapped in a dream or lost in time–has a history he doesn't know. Not yet.

Beside Toregg is a woman, her hair a waterfall of dark strands swept in a marriage braid as she leans on a man much taller than anyone in the group. Her smile is so wide, teeth glisten like the snow around them.

But it's her, their little foundling, Lova. Tormund knows it is because she looks just as she did the day he found her. The same dark eyes that reflect every bit of light, that could bore into one's soul like a pick.

Jon squeezes his arm as if knowing how proud Tormund is of their little girl, so strong and sure of herself. Tormund is certain that his husband is fit to burst from all the emotion whirring inside him.

Though he might just join him seeing the way the rest of their brood have grown.

Edur looks like Tormund, if he had black curls wilder than a storm. It is shorn on one side, healers marks etched into the empty space, like the emblem of pride they are. His tattooed arms are wrapped about a small young man, cheeks redder than flame, as Ed kisses his cheeks and whispers in his ear. Though Tormund doesn't miss the way his son's hands rest over the man's lower belly: protective in all the ways he always was when Jon was expecting.

Then Jon reaches out, starting the long train of hugs and it begins with whom Tormund can only guess is Taite.

In the ways Ed looks like him, Taite truly takes after Jon. Same pouty lips, and soft gentle eyes. Taite even has a scar through an eyebrow down to his cheek, though much deeper than Jon's. It's a gouge that's damn near an exact match to a bear paw. The iris underneath is cloudy, a colorless grey that is a polarity to the deep wood color of the other.

What a story it must be. The old wound seems to move without fuss, as his youngest son takes Jon into a warm embrace with a grin.

But pushing from the back, a girl not much older than a spritely sixteen, steps up. Her hair an onyx mist trailing behind her, as she jumps into Tormund's arms. She feels so small, but her hug is an iron cage around his ribs. Pulling back just enough to look him over, she tugs his beard and laughs.

"You're smoking out old man," she says, full of teasing airiness. In her one eye is a brown spot, a stunning irregularity in all the blue, as she radiates mischief with a grin.

"Atara," Tormund chides.

He doesn't know this name or where it's from. All he knows is that it slips from his lips as easily as breathing, and the absolute love in three syllables is weighty between them.

The little moment moves as everyone huddles inside, shying from the harsh winter snows. Tormund tries to listen, but the voices are a mix of tones lacking direction, so he settles for watching. Watches as siblings reunite. Torwynd and Munda buzz in the kitchen as they put every brother and sister to work, so they can be ready for some celebration. All the orders said in lieu of greetings.

Hidden in the havoc, Tormund watches the youngest, Atara stoke the fire, rearranging logs as if it were the easiest task in the world. Atara uses her hands to sort the flaming wood, palms unmarred and undisturbed.

He wants to yell, to tell her that she'll be hurt, but _this_ Tormund does nothing, simply watches as she steps back, unburnt, moving to peel the potatoes.

It's normal. No surprise, just everyday life.

Nothing changes, each sibling has their job. Clean that, chop this, sort those. Jon and Tormund are tasked with looking over their grandchildren, easy in comparison. Munda's youngest just starting to crawl while Toregg's second struggles to stay awake.

Tormund hopes against all hope that this won't just be a dream. That one day his family will gather like this, so familiar. But, it feels like the beginning of an end.

Everything is growing foggier, and his heart picks up its beat. He can't make out any words other than the young girl he has yet to meet. Her eyes are like crystals, sparkling, and they know so much.

"Soon," the word is gut wrenching, said amongst the chaos as he wakes, but he hears her amongst the fading dreamscape.

Then everything blanks, and only the echoes of laughter carry.

Opening his eyes feels like emerging from a hot spring, water pulling him backwards as droplets fall from his limbs like strings being cut. There is barely any light in their room, small bits of the moon's light mist through clouds, blazing them like purple wisps in the sky. Tormund barely recognizes the breathing by his side.

Jon shifts in bed, shaking him from his thoughts. The blankets fall from Tormund's shoulders as he sits up. The sheet cascade around his husband, perfectly outlining the growing swell of their child. His throat seizes, as the familiar flood of hope overwhelms him.

Unsteady fingers snake under the covers to run a hand over Jon’s sleep warmed skin. Underneath Tormund feels movement twist, and still, he is amazed by the miracle of life. He follows the kicks as they move around, starting from just under the ribs and ending near Jon's hip.

"Tor?"

Continuing to trace the babe's movement, Tormund looks at his husband's sleep mussed face. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You alright?"

"Perfect."

With a knowing smile Jon pushes himself up, only to reach a hand out to wipe at Tormund's wet cheek. He leans into that palm, so gentle as it clears streaks from his face. A stroke of Jon's thumb, and Tormund can feel the wet tracks drying as if they hadn't fallen at all.

Laying back down, Jon moves the sheets until their hands twist together over the arch of his belly. Slowly, he shifts the placement until it rests just under his heart, where the swell tapers.

"We're alright," his husband whispers.

"I know," he mumbles just as faintly. "Just a dream."

Jon squeezes, enough to make knuckles pop and lease tension that Tormund wasn't aware he had. "That's not nothing."

He smiles, "A good one, my little crow."

Understanding flashes across Jon's face, and Tormund couldn't imagine loving someone more. The way his husband's eyes crease at the corners brings back the vision of a much older man who laughed and hugged for all he was worth, with crow's feet deeper than valleys.

Jon turns, lying on his side without letting go of Tormund's hand. Not even thinking of resisting, he drapes himself over Jon, making sure to bury his nose in black curls that smell of sandalwood.

The babe shifts again, and Jon leads his hand to where she ends up. Thinking of the girl with long black curls that fell to her lower back, and a speck of brown amongst sea blue eyes, Tormund feels the slip of her name from his lips:

"Atara."

Running a thumb over his knuckles, Jon hums, "It's beautiful."

Tormund peppers kisses at his nape, enjoying the way his husband angles his neck to let him have his way. He's greedy for more, wants to love every inch of pale skin until his lungs give out and his mind swirls. Small thank yous in every brush of lips until Jon is overwhelmed by sheer love. From the life they've lived together, and the future to come.

Small things are fading from the dream, like the features of Lova's husband, or the shape of the scar on Taite's face. Clear as day, though, he can see the glimmer of someone they had yet to meet, how she stoked the fire with her bare hands. But most of all, the most vivid part was the happiness that flowed freely between all of them.

Rising from the sheets, Tormund already laments leaving the warmth of their bed. But the dream forces every inch of him to awareness. As he steps across their bearskin to the other side of the room, his thoughts swirl.

×X×

In a singular moment, Jon could feel the ebb of sleep fade. He snuggles further into the fur of their bed, waiting for Tormund to crawl in beside him. Jon's very limbs were useless where he had them placed above his head, two sore appendages beaten down by training and working. To his fingertips, a slight burn travelled in between breaths, the sting dulling on each exhale.

The room is cast in a warm glow as Tor lights the few spattering their room. Candles flicker in their holders, valiantly fending off the shadows. No matter how dim, Jon did not need the light to know the silhouette of his husband. Tormund was washing his face in the basin in the corner of their room, shirt forgotten so that the water dripped off his beard down his chest.

Jon watches each droplet fall over the planes of cheekbones, into the red, and venture further. His tongue wets his lips as Tormund finally stands, the man's muscles shifting like a perfect symphony of shadows that had Jon mesmerized.

His eyes follow Tor across the room, naturally drawn to his husband and the way he prowled nearer. Instinct–or habit, Jon isn't sure which–has his knees falling apart, the space between them widening. He feels laid bare. Within the candlelight, he can see Tormund's smile, so inviting and warm, Jon could squirm.

Slowly, as if wanting to make Jon beg, Tormund walks toward him. Something inside him wanted to run, seeing that dark glint in those blue eyes, but Jon stays put.

He is used to being manhandled, familiar with the way Tormund wraps Jon's tired legs around his waist, pulling Jon impossibly close. Simply giving in, he basks in the attention, enjoying the pulsing of his heart as his chest expands.

Tormund leans down, capturing the spread of Jon's lips with his own. Sparks fly through him as he kisses back. Though chaste, it leaves him breathless.

Calloused fingertips unweave the ties of his shirt, letting the material slide off his body. Jon shivers, the ghost of fabric over his skin completely opposite to Tormund's strong hands where they glide down his sides. The chill that causes Jon to arch as his husband kisses down his chest makes his toes curl.

Time seems to slow. Even the night air is quiet. Playful nips at Jon's ribs make him laugh, unrelenting and filled with joy even in the late hour. He cards his fingers through the smoking flame at Tormund's temples, gliding through the small knots until his fingers tangle, buried in a fine mix of red and hints of grey.

With a lingering kiss to the dip between the cage of his ribs, Tormund speaks, "Soon enough, times like this will be few and far."

Massaging at the base of his husband's scalp, Jon lets the words settle into his lungs. Heat spreads through his veins, a calm edging excitement that pulses with the beat of his heart.

"Not that we have nights like these very often," Jon replies.

Tormund huffs a breath of laughter, foregoing a response to finally settle at the swell beneath his bellybutton. The mess of facial hair tickles, but Jon finds he doesn't mind, not when Tor carefully whispers just low enough not to reach his ears. Just like it had been with Edur and Taite, his husband has been telling stories to their children before they could even hear.

Jon closes his eyes, listening to the hum of indecipherable words. He wonders what tale Tormund shares, perhaps of the giants and their mighty lives, or the skinchangers that fought the Kings of Winter. Even so, Jon can feel the warm breath glide across the slight dome as the story unfolds, and feels at peace to his bones.

With a final kiss to his belly, Tormund rises, "Been a long day."

Nodding, Jon's hands slide down his husband's chest. Muscles flex and relax under his touch, as he makes his way lower. Tormund kneels with Jon's thighs wrapped around his hips, his eyes a deep sapphire as he stares down at him. Jon rests his palm flat on the line of hair over Tormund's navel.

"Lost my balance instructing today," Jon sighs, "Right in the middle of teaching footwork. I might have to settle on not giving demonstrations."

"Ed will be so sad to have his training stalled." Tormund digs thumbs into his hips, a dirty trick to steer Jon from worrying. It works wonders as the ache in his joints ease.

"I don't think so. He asked to apprentice with the healers this morning."

The silence that settles is weighty. Thick air circulates between them, making Jon fidget. An air of recognizance flares in blue eyes, that has Jon wondering what his husband knows. He twirls a finger in the ginger hair that leads out-of-sight under Tormund's breeches.

"You think he's worried."

Jon can feel the clench of his own jaw. Though he doesn't want to agree, he nods. Sixteen years, Tormund knows him too well, can pull his fears from the dungeons of his heart.

"I think that when Taite was born, he realized I wasn't invincible."

Tormund smirks, "Says the man that came back from the dead."

Pinching his husband's hip, Jon rolls his eyes. The memory doesn't suffocate him like it used to. By now his death has settled deep, in a part of him that used to rage with fear, but no longer streams through his veins like a sickness. Years ago, he would have never believed that his life would be as it was. So impossible that he had never even dreamed of it.

_Oh, how far we've come._

Jon tugs on Tormund's beard, pulling his husband closer as they meet halfway. Nothing compares to the glide of their lips and the rush of heat that webs to the tips of his toes. The tidal wave has him winding his legs tighter to dig his heels into the meat of Tormund's ass.

"Insatiable is what you are," Tormund huffs against the hollow of his cheek. "Even without a babe in your belly, you run me dry."

With a mock gasp, Jon falls back into the furs, "Tormund Giantsbane, Husband of Bears, out of stamina? Impossible!"

Growling that has Jon shivering all over, Tormund cages him in with the length of his arms. Unwilling to back down, Jon digs his nails into the meat of those biceps, kissing up to the line of Tormund' shoulder to stare at the love of his life with barely an inch between them.

"I'm husband to the White Wolf now, the Crow that Flew North, Tamer of the Giantsbabe."

Groaning, and not in the way he had hoped, Jon falls back. "What a way to ruin the mood, I hate those names."

"They're completely untrue," His husband snorts, "I 'ave not been tamed, not at all."

"Of course not, love."

With a hum that Jon can feel shoot to his bones, Tormund returns to kissing his way up and down his body. The words being etched into Jon's skin with every brush of lips along the way, has him melting. A little bit of peace in the calm of night, neverending, and he feels as if he was floating on air. He could spend a lifetime at his husband's mercy and it still wouldn't be enough.

Jon should have known it wouldn't last.

A loud yelp echoes through the house. Fuss spreading like an outbreak, with harsh knocking against wooden floors and a crash too loud to be good. His first reaction _should_ be to get up and check on the chaos.

 _But_ , if he can't see it, it's not his problem, if he can't see it, it's not his problem, if he can't-

"Da!" Lova yells, screams really at the top of her lungs.

Shit. Rhythmic thumping joins the chorus of raised voices, a very familiar whine Jon can recognize as Edur underneath it all. The whole village is probably awake from just how rowdy it is.

"Not that I have a favorite," Tormund mumbles, "but I do appreciate Taite's talent for sleeping through anything.'

"Taite's an absolute gem, and I don't know how he came from either of us."

It's their daughter's shriek of, "Papa!" that has them both groaning out of bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Atara means crown, by the by. So, y'know, take that as you may ;)
> 
> Hopefully you guys like it and I'm glad to say that this series is complete!
> 
> Follow me on [_tumblr_](https://unamusing-s.tumblr.com/) maybe?


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